


In Need: Bitter Pill

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Series: In Need [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, John Watson is a Saint, Medical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-31
Updated: 2011-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-23 07:29:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second in the "In Need" series. Sherlock is intrigued by John's secret patient and follows him to work. Rated M for potentially upsetting subject matter, not sex. I can't describe further without spoiling the story. If you need more information before reading, then please check the End Notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Need: Bitter Pill

  
**In Need: Bitter Pill**   


Timeline: about 2 weeks following “Cast of Characters.”

...

The space between cases was, for Sherlock Holmes, a vast chasm that threatened to consume his very soul.

Not so much for John Watson, who had a “day job” to keep him occupied.

Sherlock hated John’s “day job” and considered it his bounden duty to distract the doctor from as much of his work as possible. The first few weeks after Moriarty’s attempt to murder them at the swimming pool had passed in a haze of painkillers that had eased the throbbing in his broken arm without stopping the furious activity in his brain. When he had finally weaned himself from the tablets--that is, once he began to suspect they were provided for John’s sanity rather than his own comfort--he took his ennui out on John by virtually tying him to the flat with all the things he could not do for himself one-handed.

The cast had been off for two weeks, John had gone back to work, and Sherlock had tried inserting himself into Scotland Yard as if nothing had ever happened.

Whether it had been John or Mycroft who had convinced Lestrade to cut him out of the process, it had been effective. Lestrade was unfailingly polite, always asking about the rehab on Sherlock’s wrist and elbow, always asking after John, always assuring Sherlock that the very best men were on Moriarty’s trail.

Sherlock always mentioned that he WAS the very best man, and he was not allowed to be on Moriarty’s trail. Lestrade would laugh and pat him on the shoulder.

And show him the door.

 _Intolerable_ , Sherlock thought as he flung himself on the sofa as dramatically as he could whist taking precautions not to land on his sore arm. London was awash in criminal activity, Moriarty was on the loose somewhere running half of it, and he, the world’s only Consulting Detective, was still in his dressing gown at half-past eight.

Five minutes later, John descended the stairs, muttering something about “bloody alarm clock” (Sherlock had disabled it in hopes John would oversleep and end up staying home for the day) and “nothing ever where it’s supposed to be” (probably John’s black trousers, which Sherlock had placed in the fridge simply to see how long it would take John to look there).

“Tea?” Sherlock asked hopefully.

John glared at him. It was a surpringly effective glare for such an unthreatening man. “No time. Can’t imagine how that happened.”

“You could always phone Sarah and say I’m unwell.”

A sound halfway between a laugh and a bark escaped John’s lips. “Unwell? That would be the mildest thing to name what’s wrong with you.”

Sherlock tried his best “wounded puppy” expression, but it was lost on his flatmate.

“Seriously, Sherlock, I was at your beck and call for a month--a month in which, may I add, we had no source of income other than your brother’s disgusting attempt at feudalism.”

John had stopped using Mycroft’s name if he could avoid it . Mycroft had actually taken them to dinner at to Angelo’s and offered John an impressive salary to look after his brother full-time. John’s invective-laden response was the stuff of legend for Angelo’s waitstaff.

“I made him apologize!” Sherlock growled. “Have you any idea how impossible that is?”

“Don’t care.”

“My wrist is starting to swell up again.”

“Put frozen peas on it.”

Nothing was working. Sherlock fought back the urge to put on a truly magnificent sulk, instead widening his eyes and murmuring, “Are your surgery patients so much more important than I am?”

John scrubbed his hand through his hair and rocked back and forth on his heels. “Today, this one, yes. More important than you.”

“One?” Sherlock sank his teeth into the word. “You’re going to spend the day at the surgery with just one patient?”

Groaning, John shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Off to the surgery, should be home between five and six but I’ll text if I’m running late. Take a shower, please, then get my favourite trousers out of wherever the hell you’ve parked them. I’d like a salad for dinner, anything will do so long as you bought it rather than making it yourself.”

John’s footsteps receded down the stairs for a moment, then he called back up: “And stop texting Mrs. Hudson. You know how arthritic her left thumb is.”

Sherlock cast a guilty glance at his pocket, where his hand had already been reaching for the phone.

Bored.

Bored, bored, bored.

And since when would John have one patient?

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upward in a smile.

...

Sherlock cleaned himself up and dressed in record time, grabbing his coat on the way out the door. “I’m out, Mrs. Hudson,” he called to his landlady, not waiting to discern if she’d heard him over the sound of the television. He’d text her later. It would be her own fault if she responded, he told himself as he commandeered the nearest taxi.

Getting into the surgery itself would not be simple. Sarah had completely forbidden him entry following a disastrous afternoon when Sherlock put on a lab coat and tried to diagnose everyone in the sitting room.

Frowning, he went to the back of the building, counted windows, and found that the one next to John’s office was darkened. For a six-foot tall man, he showed surprising adeptness at crawling quickly and silently through a half-opened casement window.

He sat at the desk and cocked his head toward John’s office. It was quiet except for the occasional sound of John’s footfall as he walked back and forth between his desk and, given the rustle of paper when he stopped, the exam table. Once in a while he heard John make wordless, soothing noises. The sound made Sherlock’s arm ache; it reminded him of the first pain-drenched hours in the hospital whilst he waited for his arm to be x-rayed and set.

So. Someone in pain, who had an appointment for whatever John was watching over.

He waited, ignoring his immediate surroundings in order to focus on every clue he could gather from the movements and sounds next door. Other patients went down the corridors to see other doctors, but Sherlock tuned them out. It was John’s patient who had his complete, undivided attention.

“I can give you something,” John said to whoever lay on the table. “The Misoprostol’s kicked in and you’ll feel quite a bit of discomfort.”

Sherlock’s thumbs flew over his phone as he looked up the drug.

His mouth flew open when he heard the woman’s voice. “But I should feel this, I should feel something! I deserve it!”

 _You’ve put on three pounds since I saw you last._

He dropped the phone in his lap and froze.

“Molly,” John said gently, and Sherlock knew how open and comforting his expression would be, “You don’t deserve to suffer.”

 _Office romance._

“I was so stupid, John, how could I be so stupid?”

 _He’s not. He’s not gay. Why do you...spoil...?”_

“You weren’t stupid. No one could possibly, possibly have known. Sherlock didn’t even figure it out!”

Silence, then a soft moan.

“It hurts, John.”

Sherlock was so utterly quiet that he could hear the faint susurrus of a lightly-calloused hand stroking through long, smooth hair.

“Then let me help you through this. Isn’t that why you asked for me?”

“Yes,” Molly whispered, then her voice broke and she began to sob brokenly.

 _Catch. You. Later._

Yes, he would. He would catch Moriarty. He would add Molly’s suffering to the lengthy list of sins he would exact from Moriarty’s very hide.

Sherlock quietly pocketed his phone and departed the way he came.

...

The front door banged shut at half-five.

Sherlock draped John’s trousers--freshly dry-cleaned, and he had paid a pretty price to have it done whilst he waited--over the back of his chair. He put the tea on to steep and counted John’s heavy footfall on the seventeen steps, wincing when he realized that John was favouring his right leg again.

“Sherlock?”

“In the kitchen.”

Thump. John’s rucksack. Slither and plop. John’s coat falling off the coat rack, followed by a muttered, “Fuck.” Footsteps, stopping at the chair. “What the hell--”

Sherlock emerged, mugs of perfectly-milky tea in each hand. He gave one to John, who regarded it, and then Sherlock, with a an expression of dubious amusement.

“Can’t I make a cup of tea in the afternoon without being distrusted?” Sherlock asked, drawing himself up to his fully affronted height.

John’s face was so, so weary. “Ta, then,” he said as he sank into his chair with a groan.

“Long day, was it?”

John closed his eyes. “You should know.”

The heartbeat following that statement was the longest and deepest of Sherlock’s life.

“How--”

“You were there, Sherlock. And I should do some intense shouting, but I’m too tired.”

Sherlock set his tea down on the table and crossed his arms. “How did you know?”

“I could smell you.”

”I BEG your pardon?”

“Clive Christian 1872; you’ve worn it every day since Mycroft said he hated it. I went into Dr. Madison’s office to return a book I’d borrowed, and I could smell it.”

“Perhaps Dr. Madison wears--”

“Dr. Susanna Madison, Sherlock, and she’s allergic to fragrances, and she’s going to have a conniption fit if it doesn’t wear off by the time she gets in tomorrow morning so you’d better be grateful that the window was already open.”

Damn.

“Then,” John continued, “I wanted to make sure, so I looked on the back of her chair and there were a couple of dark brown, wavy hairs. Susanna is blonde.”

Sherlock’s gasp was not entirely feigned. “You’re getting to be quite good at this.”

John opened his eyes and stared at Sherlock. “I’m glad you appreciate my genius, but I’m furious about what you did.”

”I didn’t know it would be Molly.” He lowered his eyes. “Is it over?” John nodded. “You’re sure--?”

“I was there the whole time. Not at the surgery--I took her home.”

“And you stayed.”

“Or course I stayed!” After a long swallow of his tea, John looked at Sherlock as if noticing him for the first time, or at least realising that Sherlock was truly listening. “I couldn’t leave her to go through that alone, especially knowing who...” He broke off and ran his hand through his hair. “I know it’s hard for you to grasp this because it’s emotional and not sensible, but it would have been unimaginably cruel.”

That stung. “Actually,” Sherlock said, surprised at how low and thick his voice sounded, “I do understand.”

A beat of silence passed between them before John offered Sherlock a brief smile of apology.

“Yeah. I’m sorry, I’m just so bloody exhausted. “John set the tea down and slumped forward in his chair, holding his head between his hands. “Christ. That poor girl.”

Sherlock leaned forward until his head was almost touching John’s. “She did the right thing.”

John tipped his chin up and blinked at him.

“And you did the right thing, too,” Sherlock added, softly.

He knew how much John hated this part of his job, how many times he’d begged other doctors at the surgery to trade these cases for anything, anything but this. John and Sherlock had held spirited arguments, sober ones and two spectacularly drunken ones, over the vagaries of “doing no harm.” Sherlock had thought John was ridiculously sentimental and unscientific. John had thought Sherlock was cold and completely lacking in empathy.

Letting out a pained sigh, John nodded and leaned back in his chair again. “There wasn’t anything else for it. I know that. So did Molly. She’ll be all right.”

“And you?”

“Eventually.”

It took all his willpower for Sherlock not to grasp John’s arm, not to stroke the side of his face and tell him he was brilliant, perfect, perhaps even saintly. A million trite phrases skittered across his brain, begging to be given voice. He settled for something that might be considered helpful: “Would you like me to clear off for a bit? Give you some peace and quiet?”

John shook his head. He got up and moved to the sofa. He lay down and covered his face with one hand--for a horrified instant Sherlock thought he was crying, but he was merely attempting to conceal a gentle, appreciative smile--and waved the other toward the black violin case standing in the corner. “A little music would be nice,” he murmurred.

Saintly indeed, given Sherlock’s usual preference for Berg at a very high volume.

Sherlock took his violin from the case with reverence and tightened the bow. No vaguely hostile modern concerto would do, nor one of the methodical, scientific Baroque works he played whilst in deep thought. Sherlock plucked the strings with little flicks of his left pinky, checking the tuning.

He touched the bow to the strings, then began to play from somewhere in the heart that Moriarty had threatened to burn away. He didn’t stop until he was certain that John had fallen into the gentle, dreamless sleep he deserved.

...

END

...

In my head, Sherlock is playing the second movement of the Elgar violin concerto for John.

**Author's Note:**

> End notes - SPOILERS.
> 
> John's patient is Molly. She is receiving Misoprostol, the second part of the abortion drug, to end her pregnancy with Moriarty's child.


End file.
